


A Simple Word

by Stayawhile



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-17
Updated: 2012-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-05 12:37:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stayawhile/pseuds/Stayawhile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John, a conversation.  Set shortly after the conclusion of "A Study In Pink."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Simple Word

“Why are you staring at me?”

It was a straightforward question, asked in the same tone one might use to ask the time. Nonetheless, I felt a bit embarrassed. “I wasn’t—”

“For the past forty-seven minutes, you’ve been pretending to do something on your laptop, but in fact have been watching me. When I glance in your direction, your eyes go back to the screen, but it’s generally no more than a minute before you’re staring again. I’m curious as to why.”

Can’t fool Sherlock, that’s the first rule of 221B Baker Street. Truth is, I had been watching him. I live with the man, he had a gun in his hand and was idly twirling it, and only a few days ago he had made an offhand comment that had rather disturbed me.

“You’re right, I was watching.” Might as well get it out of my system “I was thinking about what you said to Anderson, about your being a high-functioning sociopath.”

Sherlock smiled sardonically. “Ah, yes. American terminology, of course, but I had expected you to recognize it, you’re reasonably well read and not quite as dim as most in your profession. Sociopathy is a group of personality traits which—”

“I’m a doctor, Sherlock, I bloody well know what a sociopath is!” I interrupted. Condescending prat.

“But of course.” A courteous nod, soaked in sarcasm. “Is it a problem for you? Are you worried about your safety, John?” He held up the gun and aimed it at my head. I didn’t think he’d shoot me, but it didn’t make me terribly comfortable either.

“Should I be?” I kept my face and my voice calm. “You’re pointing a gun at me. Many people would find that unnerving.” 

“Don’t be stupid, of course I won’t shoot you. Being locked up in a cell is the most boring thing I can imagine, and since you’re innocent of any wrongdoing, that’s what would most likely happen.” He put the gun down on the table. “You know me, John, and you seem quite able to deal with my personality, so I don’t see why you’re bothered by a simple word.” 

I shook my head, unable to come up with a response. I supposed that was why I had been staring. Once he’d said the word, I knew he was right, as usual; he fitted most of the symptoms I understood were standard for the term: charming when it served his purpose, manipulative, unconcerned with anyone else’s feelings or any social norms, narcissistic, and a talented liar, that was my flatmate. 

Sherlock laughed. “Extremely high intelligence and sociopathy are an unusual combination. I’ve analysed myself as thoroughly as any doctor could, and a great deal more objectively, and arranged my life to suit myself, which prison would not.”

I had to smile. “No, not at all.”

“Look.” He leaned forward, suddenly intent. “It suits me to have you here. You’re not unintelligent, and often helpful with my cases. I’d rather you didn’t leave. I’ve known who I am since I was a child, and being a sociopath means that the fact that I am a sociopath doesn’t bother me. If it does you, we can discuss it. I actually find it quite an interesting topic. But first, go and make some tea.”

I don’t much like being ordered around, I had enough of that in the Army, but I wanted some tea myself, so I headed for the kitchen. Sherlock rarely shared any personal details, and I was looking forward to a glimpse inside his head.

I set his cup down next to the gun, and sat across from him with my own. “So you’ve known you were a sociopath since you were a child?”

One of his mildly contemptuous expressions crossed his face. 

“It was always obvious that I was infinitely brighter than anyone around me, and to me, the display of feelings was just another way they were stupid. They expected me to be the same—to be sad about certain facts, and happy about others, or afraid, or worried, and then were upset when I wasn’t. It confused me at first, and then it irritated me. Facts were facts, and dramatic reactions were pointless. I spent most of my time reading about maths and science, and observing as I thought a scientist would. People bored me, because they treated me as if I was a child.”

“How old were you, exactly?” I asked. I got a cold stare for that. 

“Given my intelligence, age was an irrelevant detail. I did know that I was very different from the people around me, so I decided to study those differences, and learned to recognize the patterns of emotion. It was all very simple, stimulus and response, but it interested me because I could use it to make people do as I wanted. Anger and honesty were good for keeping people away, and being a polite, charming little boy made them more willing to go along with my plans. It was generally easier than trying to make them understand their ideas were rubbish.”

I’d seen that. One of his techniques for getting people talking is to appeal to their emotions by faking his own, or pretending concern for their feelings. He drops the act the moment he’s got what he wanted, which always makes people furious. Then it’s my job to make excuses for him and get us out the door before they fling crockery at his head. Standard procedure, really.

“Well, that’s textbook sociopathic behavior, Sherlock. In fact there’s only one of the classic symptoms you seem to be missing.” I enjoyed the look on his face at that: curious, and a bit surprised.

An eyebrow raised. “Oh, and what’s that?”

“Lack of conscience,” I replied. 

“Oh, conscience,” he said, dismissively. “Mycroft used to ask me that, when we were small. ‘Have you no conscience? Have you no sense of right and wrong?’ He was always such a tedious child. These days, he’s a bit less of a stickler for morality, but only on behalf of Queen and country.” 

He was unusually talkative that night. Well, I’d told him that three nicotine patches was more than enough; his look-out if he’d ignored me. 

“You think I have a conscience? Well, I suppose that’s how you’d interpret the fact that I don’t run around murdering people merely for my own entertainment. I’ve found better ways of keeping my brain occupied, thank you, and watching people cower in fear and beg for their lives really doesn’t appeal to me.” He drained his cup. 

“Trust me, we’re all grateful for that,” I said. “So instead you’ve approached crime from the opposite side.”

“I ran across the diagnostic criteria for sociopathy in one of my mother’s medical journals—she’d wanted to study medicine, but women of her class didn’t, so instead she read papers from all over the world. I saw that it described me very well, except that I lacked the more vicious tendencies. Pain didn’t interest me, my own or anyone else’s. All I wanted was for people to stay out of my way and stop expecting me to be what they called ‘nice,’ so that I could work out the sorts of puzzles that interested me. Solving crimes, I reasoned, was a much better way to do that than committing them.”

“All very logical,” I said. “Except that solving crimes means you’re constantly involved with people. You could have been a scientist, locked away in a quiet lab unraveling the mysteries of the universe, but instead you’re out in the messy world, making people your life’s work.” 

Sherlock leaned back and laughed. “You’re unusually perceptive tonight, John. Yes, it’s a bit of a paradox. I suppose it’s because I don’t understand people that they fascinate me. They’re stupid and emotional, and that makes them unpredictable. They can actually surprise me, which I enjoy."

“So you live for pleasure, then.” I grinned. “Sherlock Holmes, hedonist.” 

“You, for example,” he said, and there was no levity in his voice. “I’ve been surprised by you from the start. You don’t seem horrified or intimidated by me, the way most people are. You get angry with me, but it hasn’t driven you away. We work well together, even though I’ve always preferred working alone. You seem to stand outside all the established categories, and I’ve had to reconsider some things I’d dismissed.”

That was unexpected, and sounded almost like a compliment. “Such as?”

“The idea of liking someone. Of having a friend. I’ve never wanted friends, it’s all a lot of sentimental tripe, and I’ve never cared about the fact that people don’t like me. It’s been odd to realize that your presence in my life improves it, quite a bit, and I’m willing to make concessions to keep you around, despite the fact that you can be incredibly obtuse, and you insist on writing up my cases in that ridiculous blog of yours.” He paused, and I felt the laser intensity of all that intelligence focused on me.

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully before he spoke again. “I suppose it’s as close to having a friend as a man like me can come.”

I found myself a bit sad at that. I’ve had some good mates in my life, and watched a few of them die. Sherlock was safely barricaded against that kind of pain, but now I’d made a crack in his wall, and he’d caught a glimpse of what he didn’t have. On the other hand, I was proud, too. He might be unaware and ignorant when it came to emotions, but I’d never believed he didn’t feel them.

“For the record,” I said, “I like you too.” He smiled.

“Odd, that,” he said. “Fancy a curry?”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Gillo at LJ for helping me keep Sherlock and John sounding every bit as British as they are.


End file.
